


219 - Brain Injuries, Comas & Finding Hope

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dad Van, F/M, Reader-Insert, Sick/Sad Van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 18:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17391056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A fic about: Brain injuries and comas and hopelessness. Miracles and recovery and life.





	219 - Brain Injuries, Comas & Finding Hope

You and Van were standing out the front of the pub. As he smoked, he watched you kick an empty can at the wall in a one-girl football match. You both turned automatically when a bottle smashed close by. It was followed by yelling. Van pushed off from where he was leaning against the wall and you moved to his side to hold his hand, nervous about the commotion.

"Havin' a bit of a scrap," Van said.

Two guys were screaming in each other's faces, hardly coherent at all. You couldn't even ascertain what the fight was about their words were that malformed. There were a couple of people watching, nervous but apprehensive to step in - the same as you and Van. Then, a punch was thrown. Van immediately left your side and strode over to them.

"Van!" you called, reaching out for him.

"Stay here," he said, pushing your hand away. You stopped moving and watched helplessly as Van stepped between the two guys. They continued to try to get at each other around him and another guy stepped in to try to help.

"Why don't ya mind ya own fuckin' business!" one of the drunks yelled and threw another punch. His fist collided with Van's face with enough force that he stumbled back. Time began to slow down as you watched Van fall backwards. His head hit the concrete sidewalk with a loud cracking sound that made everyone wince. The two drunks both took steps back, trying to distance themselves from the body lying motionless and bleeding out from the skull, like if there was space between them they wouldn't have to take responsibility for what they had done.

Everyone watched as you fell to your knees and scooped Van up into your lap. Your hands were covered in blood quickly as you tried to hold the split in the back of his head. You cried his name out and made no attempt to direct people to help. The guy that had stepped in was already on the phone to the ambulance and someone had gone inside, yelling into the busy pub that someone had maybe died. As the morbid curiosity set in, people followed the pub's manager out onto the street. That's when Bob appeared at your side.

"Y/N," he said gently. "We gotta put pressure on it." Someone handed him tea towels from the bar and you let Bob press them to Van's head. You started to rock on your knees.

"Van?" you squeaked out. "Van? Please. Please wake up. Please. I need you to wake up. Please."

The people around you were silent and watching; surely he was already dead. There was too much blood. You watched Bob look for a pulse.

"He's breathing," he said, exhaling hard with relief.

You leant down and kissed Van's lips. Blood was smeared along his cheek and as you held his face your thumbs left red prints on his increasingly more pale skin. Watching him closely, looking for movement behind his eyelids, a twitch of his perfect nose, anything; you started to lose minutes. The roaring sound of the ambulance made people scatter. Suddenly, Bob was pulling you away from Van.

"We gotta let them help him," he was saying, holding you around the waist. You made a horrible screeching sound that lingered in people's nightmares for weeks. The sound of pure fucking heartache.

"No, no, no, no, no. I can't leave him. I can't leave him,"

"You're not. You're right here. Gotta let them help."

You continued to try to claw your way out of Bob's arms, but he was too solid and your body had started to give up. The paramedics bandaged Van's head and supported his neck, then loaded him onto a gurney and pushed him into the ambulance.

"One of you coming?" they asked.

As you nodded frantically, Bob pushed you in their direction, yelling that he'd be right after you and would let people know what had happened.

On the ride to the hospital, there was nothing they could do but apply pressure to stop the bleeding, while not letting the pressure build. You sat holding Van's hand in a death grip. You needed to throw up and sleep and jump off a fucking cliff all at once. The paramedics were talking back and forth, and communicating with the emergency room. You bent over and pressed your head into his side, hoping that if he felt you that he'd remember how much you loved him and he loved you and how much you needed him to breathe.

"Please, please, please, please wake up. Wake up. This is a good story. Better than Larry's. But you have to wake up now, yeah? Please. Please. Please."

You cried the rest of the way to the hospital. When the paramedic that sat opposite you holding Van together got home, she would hold her wife close and tell her that she loved her. It would take her twice as long to tuck her twins in, grateful for them being healthy and happy. When the house fell asleep, she'd lay wide awake, restless with the memory of your sad howling ringing in her head.

As they wheeled Van through, you were instructed to wait. Without your weight being held up against him, you fell to your knees, and you wailed into yourself, inconsolable by the nurses on duty. They looked at each other, unsure what to do. Leaving you on the floor, they hoped you'd simply cry yourself into exhaustion and move to a seat. You were rocking silently when Bob came through the door with Larry.

Bob scooped you up and moved you to a chair, where you cried into him until you disassociated from your surroundings. Although you were awake for it all, you were nonverbal and nonresponsive when Mary and Bernie arrived. Bob had considered phoning more people, but after collecting Larry from inside the pub, they'd made the decision to wait and see. Bondy and Benji were both out of the country, and Van's other friends were prone to either under or overreactions, neither of which were useful. Just his parents, then. 

The five of you sat for two hours before a doctor emerged with little news. As he approached, looking for you, you listened from your seat as he said, "We've stabilised him, but he's lost a lot of blood. Early assessment show reduced response to stimuli, meaning there has likely been damage to the brain. We're moving him for scans now, then we will likely need to operate immediately. His next of kin will need to sign release forms, then it's just waiting. You should consider going home. We won't know how he is until morning. By then he'll be in surgery, or just out."

After the forms were signed by Bernie, they stood in front of you, Larry kneeling close, his hands on your knees.

"Y/N? Ain't no use sitting here. We'll go home, yeah? Bring him some clothes for when he wakes up tomorrow?"

Immediately you knew it was a trick. You knew Van wouldn't wake up the next day. Of all the thoughts running through your head, the one that seemed most real was the idea that if you left, if you weren't under the same roof as Van, he'd die. He needed you. You shook your head at Larry.

"I'll wait," you whispered. They all glanced at each other.

"You won't know anything until tomorrow though," Bob tried. You didn't respond. Larry stood up, looking to Mary and Bernie for answers. Bernie sighed then took the seat next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close, away from where you'd been attached to Bob for hours.

"Alright, kid. Let's wait for our boy together," he said, squeezing you. You started to cry again. He looked up at the others. Bob had stood, stretching out his unused legs. "You guys head home. I'll ring through if we get any news."

You passed out on Bernie and woke up when the first rays of sunshine came through the emergency waiting room windows. As you sat up, you looked around the room for the first time. Bernie was asleep; his neck on a horrible angle and arms crossed over his chest. There were fewer people waiting than there had been when you came screaming into the room. The nurses looked tired, ready to hand over to the day shift.

When Bernie sat up, the weight of you off him, he looked around as you had.

"No news?" You shook your head. He patted your knee then stood. "I'll go find coffee. Hold down the fort, love."

Alone in a room full of strangers, you pulled your knees up to your chest and tried to swallow the feeling of dread and panic and sickness. A little after Bernie had returned, the same doctor came out. He explained that Van's skull had cracked and his brain had swelled with a tiny fragment of bone lodged in it. He was almost out of surgery; the hard part was done and he was being stitched up as the doctor spoke.

"He's gonna be fine?" Bernie asked, confused at all the medical jargon the doctor had used. The pause following the question was telling.

"He's… stable. We're going to induce a coma for at least a week, then check the swelling. We will reassess after that. Once he's out of the induced coma, there is the possibility he won't wake,"

"What?" you squeaked, hands snapping up to cover your mouth, your eyes welling up with tears again.

"I can't give you the odds of that until we take the week to settle."

You were left in the waiting room for another half hour, then a nurse beckoned you to follow her. She led you to the intensive care unit, where you were left at the door to Van's room. Bernie opened and went through first, but you couldn't force yourself in. You watched in a terrifying calm as Bernie pulled up a chair and took Van's hand, kissing the top of gently. For the first time, you could see Bernie was close to breaking.

After a couple of minutes, Bernie stood, wiped tears from the corner of his eyes, and motioned for you to come in. You shook your head. You'd not even let yourself really look at Van; your eyes darted around at other details. The IV in his arm. How tight the sheets were tucked in. The steady line tracking his heartbeat.

"Y/N. He never did listen to me. Listens to you. Come on," Bernie said.

Slowly, you stepped into the room and felt the weight of the situation become very fucking real fall onto you. Van was asleep, but it wasn't his sleeping face. He was void of the cozy warmth that usually glowed from him. There was a sickly purple tinge to his skin and darkness under his eyes. You could see flecks of blood still dried in his hair and around his ear. The crack in his head was covered with a bandage, and they'd shaved off part of his hair before they could save him. He'd be devastated when he woke up. You almost laughed at the thought, before hiccupping in a near-cry and correcting yourself. If. If he woke up.

You sat in the chair as Bernie moved to stand against the wall. Pulling the chair as close to the bed as you could, you gently ran your hand along the length of Van's arm. His skin was cold, so you moved the blanket over his body, tucking him in safely. You leant over and kissed his check.

"Baby? Van? Can you hear me?" you whispered. "Um, 'cause I really, really fuckin' need you to, you know? I know you're hurt and they're gonna make you rest for a bit, but after that you have to wake up. Please. We need you. I need you."

Once you'd been put by his side, you couldn't tear yourself away. When Mary and Larry came through the doors, you listened as Bernie crushed the fresh-faced optimism they'd brought with them. They all took turns standing on Van's other side, talking to him and gently kissing his forehead and cheek.

"Come on, Y/N. Let's get you home for a shower and some proper sleep, yeah?" Larry said. It was midday and the doctor had returned to explain everything again. He had reiterated it would be at least a week before Van could wake. There was nothing to be done by sitting by his side.

"I'm not leaving him," you said.

"You're not. We'll come and check on him tomorrow. Every day. But you need sleep,"

"No," you replied, your voice laced in panic. It worried everyone in the room. "I can sleep here." You stood and carefully climbed onto the bed, lying on your side in the small space next to Van. You rested your head on his chest and closed your eyes. It absolutely killed Mary to watch and she left the room without saying another word. Bernie looked to Larry.

"I'll stay with her. You guys go. I'll call you later," he said. Bernie nodded and went after Mary, glancing back at you one last time. Their composure was completely incomprehensible to you, especially given that you knew how much they loved Van. You'd never see them each night at home though. You'd never have to witness them fall apart and weep at the inconceivable thought of losing their meant-to-be-inconceivable baby boy. They, unlike you, spared everyone else the misery of having to know that pain.

Larry tried again to move you, but you wouldn't budge. He sat for hours waiting until you gave up, but like you said you would, you slept. It was just past six in the evening when Larry woke you, a nurse lingering at the door trying to make him take you and leave.

"No," you muttered, burying your head in Van's side again.

"I don't know what to do," you heard him whisper to the nurse. She sighed and said she'd find you a spare blanket. "Y/N? They're gonna let you stay. Do you want me to stay too? 'Cause I will."

You were leaving him alone in his stress and grief, but you were drowning in your own and in no position to be putting a hand out to help. When you failed to reply to him, Larry waited until the blanket arrived to tuck you in, then he left. You slept through the entire night, curled around Van's terrifyingly still body, exhausted from feeling.

…

The second day passed in much the same way. You were begged to eat, to sit up, to move. By the time night rolled around they'd resorted to trying to guilt you into leaving, saying you were scaring people. There was no way you could feel any worse, so you assumed the same was true for others. They already felt the maximum amount of pain, therefore you couldn't be adding to it. You drifted in and out of restless sleep that night, constantly waking every time a nurse walked past or a machine whirled too loud.

Bondy literally ripped you from Van's side on the third day. You were too weak to fight; you couldn't even muster a scream of protest. A rag doll, he carried you like a bride from the hospital as you tried to reach out for Van. You started to cry, small, broken sounds. Still sure he'd die if you left, you mustered all the energy left in your body and squirmed out of Bondy's grip. He almost dropped you on the carpark ground but managed to balance you to your feet. You got only a couple of metres before his arms were around your waist and pulling you towards his car. You collapsed in the back seat, and despite the doors not being locked, you couldn't figure out how to escape. You clawed at the doors and cried. When the car rumbled to life and began to drive away, you curled up on the seat and closed your eyes.

When you opened them, you were in your bed and the night had come and gone. You made you way down the hall and into the kitchen. Larry was at the table. He moved quickly to help you sit, then began to make you tea and food. It was hard to swallow. It had been about four days since you had eaten. As soon as it had something, your stomach wanted everything. You ate your way through half the fridge, then felt sick.

"Go have a bath," Larry said.

"Shower,"

"No. You'll fuckin' pass out and I can't handle you both in hospital. Bath. I'll check on you to make sure you've not drowned."

Every ten minutes he'd knock on the door. You'd slur out a, "Yep," then go back to staring vacantly at the wall. You tried to wash your hair, but as soon as you started to lather it, you felt guilty about doing anything normal while Van was lying in a hospital bed, almost dead. You went back under the water, letting the shampoo be washed out before it did much at all.

Out of the bath, you drank enough water that you could pee normally again, then crawled back into bed. The sun was setting on night five of Van's comatosed state.

…

Up early the next day, you and Larry were picked up by Mary and Bernie and arrived at the hospital just after nurses had come through and shaved Van's ginger stubble and brushed his hair out. It made you cry, sobbing into Larry as he leant against the wall. The doctor came around and said that he'd go for scans in a day's time, then they'd try to wake him up.

As you laid next to Van that night, again unable to be moved, you cried at the fact he was starting to smell more like hospital than himself. Sterile disinfected and unbranded soap. Starch crisp sheets and the faint scent of illness.

You laid awake wondering why they hadn't called Bondy again. Maybe it hurt him to have to do what he did, even though it was what you needed to survive. Maybe they thought Van would heal better with you at his side. You didn't much care. The important thing is that you could feel his chest rise and fall under your hand. 

The scans showed no permanent damage and the wave of everyone's relief was overwhelming. You stayed still and offered no reaction. It wasn't the end of the news. There was no permanent damage, but there was damage. Brain cells don't regenerate, but the neurons surrounding the affected areas could learn to pick up the slack. Remarkable little things, they are. When he woke, he wouldn't be as sharp and skilled, but he'd learn and get better and return to his normal level of functioning with time. 

Everyone was so overjoyed that they had misheard "If he wakes" as "When he wakes." Everyone but you. The two letter word made your tummy turn and your skin went cold.

"When will he wake up?" you asked.

"Ah, tomorrow morning we'll attempt to bring him out,"

"Will he wake up?" you pressed, wanting to hear exactly how bad it could be.

"We don't know. It's not unusual for it to take a couple more days for people to recover consciousness,"

"What if he doesn't wake up at all?"

"Y/N," Larry said. You were scaring him.

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

You agreed to go home that night so that you could get clean and wear Van's favourite of your dresses the next day. You hardly slept, staying up flicking through his notebooks and going through his clothes to find anything that really smelt like him.

…

By late afternoon, he could be awake. He wasn't. You stayed at his side that night and the next. The nurses fell in love with you, with your love, and they started to call you Charmander when you weren't in earshot. Curled up next to Van, terrified, alone, hope dwindling fast, you reminded them of the episode where Charmander's tail almost went out in the rain; a little leaf the only cover he had. They had watched people die, but there was still something desperately tragic about you that they couldn’t put their finger on.

After three nights in the small hospital room, not eating, not moving, your body started to protest. It became a thing capable of only feeling agitation and pain. Your muscles were knotted with tension. Your bones felt like they were rubbing together like nails on a blackboard. You were crawling out of your skin. Then, Bondy appeared.

"Gonna go kicking and screaming this time?" he asked, his voice as kind as he could make it. Silent tears rolled down your cheeks as he carried you away from Van.

…

Each day you returned to Van, staying by his side all day. People would come and go. Mary and Bernie were there every day, sitting next to you without needing to say anything. The doctors remained sure that he was going to be okay. He was breathing fine on his own. The swelling was reducing. It didn't make sense to you why he wasn't waking then, and in your lack of understanding of neuroscience you became more and more despondent.

…

You were sitting in a chair by Van's bed holding his hand when you thought to yourself this is it, I've lost it. Van's fingers had twitched against your hand. You glanced up at him. No movement, no open bright blue eyes. It was the morning of day thirteen. That afternoon, as you kissed his lips goodbye, you felt it again. His lips parted, just slightly, almost undetectable. You stood quickly and watched. Heart racing, you tried to not let it fuel the hope you were purposefully killing in preparation for the worst.

On day fourteen his fingers curled around yours, and his legs started to move in his sleep. His nose did the little rabbit twitch it sometimes did when he was dreaming. He was dreaming again.

On day fifteen, as you and Larry drank tea, Van's eyes fluttered open. Larry noticed first, glancing across at his best friend then almost choking. You stood and dropped your cup, dashing to Van's side. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling and didn't respond to moving stimuli.

"Van!" you cried, but he didn't look at you. It hurt worse than him being dead to the world.

The doctor said it was a progress, and in all likelihood within the next few days he would regain motor function and speech abilities.

When you woke up on day sixteen, Van was awake.

"Hey, baby," you whispered. His eyes tracked your movements and it felt like love. You moved his bed so he was sitting and when you put a plastic cup of water in his hand, he could hold it. He drank through a straw and the doctor said that normally took longer to achieve. Although he watched his friends and family come and go, he didn't respond. Van didn't seem to recognise anyone, but he didn't show distress at being around strangers either.

As the guys tried to pluck his personality back from the abyss with stories of Van's antics, you sat next to him and held his hand. Every few minutes he'd squeeze and you'd return the pressure. Another thing that felt like love.

That night he ate jelly and as you fell asleep next to him, his thumb ran along the side of your hand. Love, love, fucking love.

He was up before you again on day seventeen. When he wouldn't eat the oatmeal delivered, you tried some and spat it out quickly. He smiled and made a small sound that was almost a laugh. Then, when your face lit up in reaction, he smiled at that too. You started to cry into the bowl of grey mush.

"Van," you whispered, and climbed onto his lap to hug him close. He hugged back loosely, but as hard as he could.

That night, as you sat in the chair next to him watching television, he looked over at you. He looked concerned and you watched his face carefully, trying to work out what he needed. Slowly, small sound by small sound, he said your name. There had never been a sound so fucking perfect. You stood and kissed him, but he couldn't kiss back. That's an acquired skill he'd have to relearn over time.

…

Day by day, touch by touch, word by word, skill by skill, Van slowly started to grow back into himself. In all the progress - getting out of bed, brushing his own teeth, eating solid foods, making jokes, remembering all his friends, recalling what had happened - you had forgotten what it had felt like to believe you were losing him. All that angst and bitterness was so real and so formidable that it could not be simply pushed aside to make way for the good.

After a month of hospital living, with the only existing side effects shaky hands, sometimes muddled sentences, and a slower reaction time, Van was let loose on the world. With him safe, home, and alive, your body was allowed to feel again. You fell apart on the first night back. You came undone so completely that the breakdown was unmanageable and uncurbed by any consideration for Van's possible reaction.

Mary, Bernie and Larry had been over for dinner. They left around 10 pm, making you promise to keep him protected from harm. Of course, of course, you joked, but the weight of that promise pushed down on your shoulders and shook you. Had you not done enough to keep him safe from the start? Did anyone blame you for what had happened? In reality, no. Not in the slightest. The idea hadn't crossed anyone's mind, not even as they cried through the night and searched for reason in the misery and injustice.

It was one bad thought that reminded you of every single one of the others though. As you let Van stack the dishwasher, watching him move slowly so he'd not break anything, you felt the panic start. When he was done he looked up at you and frowned.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I am now. How are you?"

"Uh… tired… Yeah. Tired. You look… worried,"

"I'm fine. I'm just gonna finish up in here. Go warm up the bed," you said, standing and faking a smile. You could see that he wasn't buying it. Body nearing complete exhaustion, you swayed on the spot. Van pulled you into a hug.

"You're lying. Not gonna break if you tell me the truth," he whispered, nuzzling into your hair.

You fell to the floor and started to cry so hard you almost puked. Hyperventilating and crawling backwards into the corner of the room, you stopped trying to be okay. Van followed you down, crawling after you and sitting on his knees, pulling you closer. You couldn't sit up like he was; all you could do was bury your face in his lap and wrap your arms around his waist. He rubbed your back and stayed quiet.

"I… I thought… you… were gonna fucking die!" you howled out. "And… A-A-And… you didn't wake up… The-then you couldn’t talk!" It kept coming from your mouth straight from your unconscious. Everything that had happened. Everything you felt. Every fear. Every thought. Every doubt. All of it. You threw it all up onto the kitchen floor and Van was as helpless to do anything as you had been watching him sleep in the hospital bed.

Neither of you knew someone could cry for such a long time, but there you were, an hour later only just fading to sniffles. Van's jeans were wet with your tears and snot, and your eyes were puffy. When you'd been quiet for a couple of minutes, Van's hands stopped gently combing through your hair.

"Baby?" he asked. "I… ah, fuck… I can't say what you… need me to now… right now… I love you. And I hear what you're sayin'… I just… can't…"

"Yeah, yep," you said, sitting up suddenly and wiping your face on your sleeves. "I know. You can’t make your thoughts turn into sentences proper. Not yet. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, babe. Yeah… I can't yet, but I do want you to tell me all this… But again when I can help with it, you know?"

"Ah-huh, yep. Sorry," you stand, moving to stand. Van kept a hold of you.

"Don't say sorry. You've not done anything. You're… Dad told me before about how you wouldn't leave… 'bout how you caused trouble for everyone 'cause you'd not leave… I… get this has been worse for you than me-"

"No, Van-"

"Nah, Y/N. It has. I've been asleep. You've been… whatever this is. We'll talk about it. Promise… Just both need sleep now."

You nodded and got off the floor together. Cleaning the kitchen would wait, a job completed by a friend when they visited and didn't know how else to help.

…

As you stood silently in the doorway to the living room, you wondered to yourself which was the harder thing to watch: Van in a coma, unmoving and unanimated, or Van's failing attempts to play his own music on guitar and the subsequent hurt and frustration of that. He pushed the guitar off his lap and watched it hit the floor.

Pretending to only have just walked into the room, you cleared your throat as you walked through and placed mugs of tea on the coffee table.

"I'm fucked," Van said.

He held his hands out in front of him, watching them shake.

"It's gonna take time,"

"Yeah well, I've had time. It's been two months since I got home, Y/N,"

"And you've made heaps of progress," you replied. He snorted, annoyed at your choice of words. Van hated to talk about it at all, but especially in such clinical terms. "You're back to being you. You're talking normal. Thinking the same,"

"None of that fuckin' matters if I can't play guitar."

Of course, it mattered. He knew that. He was upset and didn't want to be upset. Van had forgotten what it was like to have to learn. He'd forgotten how it felt to be average. He'd been on easy street, a beloved star for too many years. The fact that his physical recovery was only on track and he wasn't advancing faster than the doctors' predicted, annoyed him.

"Well… Catfish can get another guitarist, or you can just stick to the plan and wait a little longer before going back to work. We could fill the time with something else,"

"Something else?" he asked.

"Yeah. We could… get married?"

"You said you wanted kids first, so they could be in it," Van replied.

"Yeah, but we can change the plan,"

"Can't even light my smokes without burning myself, Y/N. How am I gonna put a ring on your finger without fuckin' it up?"

"You burnt yourself once and I'm pretty sure that was just you being a dick, so it don't even count. But fine. No wedding. We could, I don't know, go on a holiday?"

"Can't. Not allowed to go too far from the doctors,"

"Right. Umm… We should start our family then," you said. Van looked at you with an expression of anger. "What?"

"Are you fucking kidding?" he asked in disbelief.

"Nnnnno?"

"Y/N. That has got to be the dumbest idea ever. How am I meant to be the best dad ever when I'm like this,"

"Van, I think the way you see yourself right now isn't really, like, accurate, you know?"

"It is. We're not having a fucking kid, Y/N. Not for a while. Not if I don't get better,"

"If? Since when was it an if? You will get better,"

"Yeah, well, we'll see," he said, standing. You watched him step over his guitar and leave the room. You sat on the couch for long enough that both mugs of unconsumed tea went cold.

…

A self-fulfilling prophecy, Van's recovery and rehabilitation began to plateau. Each day you watched him give up on the exercises he was meant to do to regain his total coordination and motor skills. On the good days, he'd give it a go before throwing the towel in. On the bad days, he'd skip them entirely. You learnt to not comment on it, because he had started to perceive encouragement as disappointment. Not even Bernie or Larry could talk to him about it.

The Van that you feared you'd lost but didn't was starting to fade again. The person you lived with stomped around the house, achieving very little with his days apart from chain smoking and listening to music. Sometimes he'd write. Sometimes, if you begged, he'd take Little Mary for a walk. Mostly though, he just existed. And maybe that would have been okay, but he wasn’t happy.

You went to bed every night and watched him through the darkness, hoping to any god that would listen for another miracle. Something had to happen. There needed to be a break in routine to save you both from the misery.

On an unseasonably warm Sunday morning, the blessing in disguise was delivered. At first, you were utterly devastated by the little lines on the pregnancy test. You had only had sex a handful of times since Van had got home. Each time was soft and gentle and more about feeling than orgasm. They were acts of healing. It seemed strange that you could have possibly fallen pregnant, but when you peed on two more sticks, you had to accept the truth.

The panic set in then. Van would think you'd somehow done it on purpose. He'd be angry and upset. There would be a suggestion of 'fixing' the 'problem.' You cried all day, only pulling yourself together when you heard Larry's car in the driveway.

You quickly got into the shower to buy yourself a couple of minutes. All barriers between your body and his smashed long ago, Van walked into the bathroom, announcing himself with a quick double-knock on the door. He stood on the other side of the shower curtain.

"Babe?" he asked. He sounded happy, at least, less moody than usual. "Why you having a shower at three in the afternoon?"

"Ah… bored?" you replied.

"Oh. You hungry? I'm gonna make something."

Van hadn't cooked for a long time.

"Yeah. That would be good. I'll be out in a second,"

"Okay!"

As you got changed into track pants and a loose fitting knit cardigan, you made the decision to not tell Van. You'd go to the doctor first and establish how far along you were and what options you had. It could have been the fear of his reaction that motivated you, but strangely, you just didn’t want to break his good mood. You desperately missed that enthusiastic tone in Van's voice. You'd missed him bouncing around the kitchen. There wasn't anything worth ruining a shot at having that back, even for a night.

…

Bag over your shoulder, keys in your hands, you were about to walk out the front door as Van walked back in. He had left to go see a friend ten minutes before, driving by himself for the first time. You had told him you were staying home, so when you collided with him in the doorway, you both looked at each other in shock.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Why are you back?"

"I asked first,"

"Just going out to get milk," you lied. Van nodded slowly.

"I forgot that box of old PlayStation stuff for Nick's kid," Van said.

As you pulled out of the driveway and started on your trip to the doctor, Van would check the fridge and find two full cartons of milk.

…

That night, Van was quieter than usual. When you asked about his day and about driving, he offered one worded replies. He hardly ate any dinner and opted to sit in the armchair rather than curled up with you on the couch. You knew he was suspicious and had probably worked out you had lied. There was no way of knowing what he thought you'd done with your day. If you didn’t want to sleep with painful space between your bodies in bed, you'd have to tell him. The silver lining was that his mood couldn’t get much worse.

"Van?" He looked over at you but said nothing. "I'm sorry,"

"For lying?"

You nodded and took a breath. "I'm… Something's happened and I'm scared to tell you." You thought maybe if he knew you were afraid, he'd soften. He didn't; he just waited for you to continue. "I just need you to know I didn't do this on purpose. I promise,"

"What 'ave you done?"

"Nothing! I haven't done anything. It just… happened…"

Van watched you, still waiting, but it was getting harder for you to stay calm. He could see your anxiety then and moved to kneel at your feet.

"Just tell me. We'll figure it out," he said, his voice soft enough that it almost could pass as a whisper. Another deep breath in and another shaky exhale.

"I'm pregnant."

The words hit the air with such clarity that there would be no misinterpreting them. No 'whats' or 'whaddamean' or anything like that. The entire situation was real and happening.

Van laughed. You watched him shuffle off his knees and sit on his butt on the living room rug. He shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. He looked up at you with a grin on his face.

"Didn't do it on purpose," he said. "How would you even do it on purpose? Y/N! You look like you're gonna be sick. You really thought I'd be… mad or whatever?"

You stood up, confused and tired and a bit lost. "Yes! You said you don't want kids now and you were so angry about it! What the fuck was I meant to think?! You've been moping about the house all fuckin' sorry for yourself and not trying to get any better and getting pissed when any of us say anything! You're always fucking mad, Van. Why would I think this would be any different?!"

Moving to leave, to hide or run, you were held in place by Van's arms wrapping around you as he quickly stood.

"Babe-"

"Don't babe me!" you tried to yell but it came out as a whine, a whimper.

"I'm sorry, okay? I know. I know everythin' you're saying is true. I'm a fucking ass. I haven't been good to you-"

"No, Van… That's not what I mean... That’s not fair. You're hurt-"

"Babe. Look at me," he said, turning you. He held your face in his hands. "Yeah. I got hurt, but I'm not anymore. Ain't any reason why I couldn't be better at this point. Doctors keep saying that. You're right. Dad and Mum and Larry are right. I'm sorry. I- Fuck!" He took a step back, ruffling his hair with one hand, the other resting on his hip. Van was thinking a million thoughts at once, but only was staying put, enabling him to grab a hold of it. He grinned at you, then started laughing again. "We're havin' a baby!"

You looked at him in shock. He spun on the spot, then crouch on the ground, hands on his head. You moved closer slowly, cautiously. As you knelt down in front of him, you nodded. "Yeah…"

"Are you sure? How many tests did you do?"

"Ah… Three,"

"Three! Sure fuckin' thing then!"

"Um, wait, Van, just before you get… excited… there's more…"

"Twins?!" he yelled. You laughed, shaking your hand and putting your hands on his shoulders to calm him.

"No! God, no. Um. Not more… babies… More that I haven't told you," you said, and Van's smile faded. Suddenly, you realised what he probably thought. "I already went to the doctor. That's it,"

"I really fuckin' thought you were gonna say-"

"Really, Van? Who… No. I just. I went to the doctor and I know that you'd want to be there but… I had to be sure, you know?"

You watched his expression flicker between happiness and hurt and back again. He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, no, I understand. It's okay… I'm sorry I-"

"Let's just stop," you interrupted, putting your hand to Van's mouth, pressing gently. "…with the sorrys, okay? We both… It's all been hard. From the start. There's no right way of… figuring it all out. But we have to now. We both have to try harder. Okay?"

When Van held your face in his hands again, and his thumbs ran along your cheeks, you realised you'd started to cry. Silently, tears had fallen when there was too much to feel. Van nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, baby. I'm gonna get better. Be better. You won't have to feel bad or worry. We'll be good. I promise. Okay? I promise."

You pushed yourself into Van and he held you close. When you resurfaced from having your face pressed into his chest, you kissed hard.

…

Twelve months later.

The squealing was loud enough that you could hear it from outside. As you unlocked the front door to the house and walked through to the kitchen, it became apparent where they were. Leaving a takeaway dinner on the bench and kicking your shoes off, you padded down the hall and stood in the doorway to the bathroom.

Van was sitting in the bath opposite the happy and squealing Emry.

"Where did you get that?" you asked Van. He looked up at you and smiled. Emry was sitting in a small floaty ring, bobbing up and down in the bath water 

"We got it at the baby shower,"

"Huh."

You walked over to them and knelt next to the bath. Van leant over and kissed your cheek, leaving bubbles on your skin. You reached out for your baby, and slowly spun his ring around. He laughed and splashed his little hands on the top of the water. Van flicked water back at him, to which he responded with more hysterical giggles.

"You getting in then?" Van asked. "Plenty of room."

You didn't even need to think it through. You stripped quickly and sat in the tub, your legs stretching out and over Van's. He rested his hands on your feet and watched as you played with Emry and the rubber duck family he'd been collecting. Benji had bought him one that flashed different colours and Emry was still hypnotised by it. You pushed one of the ducks along the surface towards Van.

"Go get it, baby," you said. Emry's little legs kicked through the water and you helped him move. When the duck got to Van, he picked up it quickly.

"You want this?" he asked his son. Emry watched the duck carefully, like a puppy waiting for his ball. "Back to Mummy." Van threw the duck to you. Emry turned around slowly and came back over to you.

"Is this a bit mean?" you asked Van as you threw the duck back and watched Emry swim back over to his father. Van shrugged, a smirk on his face.

"Maybe. But I think he does like it," he answered. When you had the duck and Emry was waiting for you to do something, you gave it to him. In his tiny hands, it looked huge. He looked up at you with his big, blue McCann eyes and squealed. You looked over at Van; he was already looking at you. "I love you,"

"I love you too. You've done good, Van. You said you would and you did. You know that, right?"

"Ah-huh. Gotta keep my girl happy," he replied. He pulled Emry's ring towards him and gently lifted him out. You threw the ring out of the bath and watched Van hold Emry close to him. Emry settled, chewing on the duck and resting against Van's chest. "And this one. Gotta keep you happy. Right, mate?"


End file.
